


The Ice King

by Saladscream



Series: The Ice King [2]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5978257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladscream/pseuds/Saladscream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has a second appointment with his standoffish client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice King

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Pepe for the Beta and the cheerleading.

Round two.

Same hotel suite, same serious eyes.

It’s been two months and I haven’t forgotten his shade of wintry blue.

He lets me in without a word – with barely a glance, in fact. I feel like old news.

He already has a drink in his hand and he doesn’t bother to offer me one. Apparently, familiarity does breed contempt.

He called me again, though; means I must’ve done something right last time. Not that you’d guess it from his closed-off look.

Once again, he’s dressed in a disarming get up that I’m going to dub “academic geek chic” for ease of reference. Before we reach the lounge area, I hold him by the arm and force him to face me. His eternal frown contracts in displeasure and a cold pout forms on his lips. 

Lips I haven’t forgotten either. 

I defuse him with a smile, gentle my hand on his arm and slide the tips of my fingers through his hair - just above his ear. The strands are a little longer. Negligence or trendsetting. It could be a bit of both. 

My hands drop to his hips and I move in for a kiss. Just a long, drawn-out brush of lips, really. He resists to begin with, then humours me somewhat stiffly. I may have just over-stepped a few boundaries, so I let him go.

He takes a long sip from his glass, his chastising eyes never leaving mine. Washing me down with bourbon. How subtly insulting.

This promises to be interesting: I’ve been in the room for two minutes and I’ve already got him pissed. I step back, take my jacket off and lay it on the back of the couch.

“And the shirt,” he says a little dryly behind me.

He has a thing for my chest, it seems. I get rid of my white tee – let it drop in a heap on the opulent, thick carpet.

I turn to him and see the icy blue eyes scanning me from head to toe. A confrontational quality in the silent assessment. Good thing I thought of wearing my best jeans. 

He crooks a finger at me around his glass. His expression is carefully sealed as I come to stand in front of him. 

“On your knees,” he tells me regally. 

I get down on my knees, keeping my head bowed. I’m thinking someone’s about to go regal on my mouth. Funny how they all end up having similar kinks – or maybe I just bring it out in them. Huh, I’d never thought about that.

“Can I play rough?” he asks smoothly. I’m pretty sure there’s a smirk somewhere in the back of his voice.

I’m pleased I made such a lasting impression: he’s only had to wait two months to serve me that line.

“Knock yourself out,” I tell him.

He undoes the button on his dark grey chinos with his free hand. He’s bare underneath, his hard cock bent to the side and pushing painfully against the zipper. 

“No hands,” he orders, before I can reach for it. He’s either learnt to read my mind or I’m getting too transparent in my old age.

He then proceeds to unceremoniously drag his cock out single-handedly and points the shiny, weeping head at my face. Well, anticipating much?

“Deep-throat me,” he instructs evenly.

And here they are - the filthy words in that soft, articulate voice. The sinful contrast gets to me, makes me twitch and pulse in the confines of my jeans.

I look up to him, make sure he locks eyes with me – pause for effect – and open my mouth expectantly. I’m not disappointed. He lets out a telltale exhalation and his pale blue eyes widen a fraction. I know, your highness: please keep it together long enough to shoot your load down my throat instead of all over the nice carpet.

He regroups quickly, though. His expression goes from ill-concealed arousal to calculating challenge as he begins to feed me his cock.

He starts by brushing the head against the corner of my open mouth, spreading pre-come around messily. Then he lightly circles my mouth, raking the crown over the sharp row of teeth. Really not much of a sense of self-preservation, here. But damn sexy, anyway.

He finally lets his cock rest squarely on my tongue and I brace myself for what comes next, relaxing everything I can relax. His shaft slides into me with slow accuracy until his guiding fingers butt against my lips and the tip of his cock presses against the back of my throat. A satisfied moan escapes him as my mouth and throat work to accommodate him. His fingers trace my lips curiously.

Then his hand slides into my hair, stroking with proprietary confidence. 

I begin slowly: an almost imperceptible rub of my tongue at first. I’m still adjusting to his not inconsequent girth. Trying to find how to keep him deeply embedded while remaining oxygenated. I back away a little and he slips out of my mouth by a few inches – I suck wetly on the shaft to make up for his loss. 

Posture is everything here, so I shift on my knees and brace my hands on my thighs for additional leverage. Once I get a satisfactory angle, I start to work him in earnest. He sinks in deep. His head tilts back.

He’s still holding his drink in his left hand – half an inch of amber liquid slanting at the bottom of the glass. His other hand is busy cheering me on. 

I try something. A brief, grating hum that vibrates against his sensitive head. The glass starts to slip from his grasp, his fingers clenching hard on it millimetres from the edge – just as my hand catches the bottom of the tumbler. 

I admit it: it was a mean thing to do.

He lets me take the glass from his hand and put it down on the carpet by my knee. Then he exacts revenge.

His right hand closes at the back of my head and he starts thrusting against it. Not violently, but with impressive focus. I relax into it and ride the assault. 

Now that his left hand is free it explores the harsh line of my open jaw, the stretched expanse of my hollowed cheek. Closed-mouth sighs of contentment. Somehow I think he’s getting off on the way my face feels when it’s being fucked as much as on the deep-throating itself.

He comes with one last, forceful thrust that tries my gag reflex to the limit. A thick, complacent “ahhh” celebrating the ejaculation. He spurts sharply, coating the back of my throat, then thoughtfully pulls out a little, the rest of his load pooling on my tongue. 

His right hand releases the back of my head and comes to hold my chin. His fingers are cool and assured. They stroke me leisurely as he slowly softens in my mouth.

I’m holding my breath. Not because he looks endearingly dominating, but because I know that as soon as I resume breathing, I’m going to cough. Come in your airways tends to be a pain like that.

It doesn’t fail. He slips out and his hands leave me: it’s my cue to indulge in a coughing fit that I control soon enough. A little embarrassing for a pro, but he really went all out on this.

He tucks himself in, zips up, leaving the button undone. He disappears into the bathroom without a word.

I pick up the glass on the floor, get up – roll my jaw gingerly, stretch the kinks out of my back. My knees are stiff. So’s my cock – but that’ll soon be taken care of, if the shower I start to hear running is anything to go by.

I sit on the armchair he occupied last time I was here. It’s strange-looking but comfortable. I down what’s left of his drink as he takes his sweet time in the bathroom. I eventually sit forward, try to find something to do with myself. 

I reach for the book wedged against my ass. And with my luck it’s not even in English. A French paperback of some sort. How clichéd. I wedge it back into the armchair. I hate modern French literature – so pretentiously obtuse and narcissistic.

I take my boots and socks off of my own accord. He can always punish me afterwards if he objects to my initiative. His royal highness seems to be in a mood, anyway.

He finally walks out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his middle as he dries his hair with another towel and heads directly to the bedroom, hardly acknowledging my presence.

“Join me when you’re done,” I hear him say as he passes the doorway. We’ve reached the stage where we can start talking in ellipses, apparently.

I take care of business in the bathroom and check that I have my supplies in my back pocket. 

As I enter the room, I notice the small bottle of lube on the pillow and the turned down sheets on the huge bed – it looks all very domestic.

Then I notice the gorgeous man in a towel, watching me with his distant blue eyes. Waiting for me. A muscle jumping in his jaw and a collarbone begging to be licked.

I take two steps, grab him by the waist and kiss him greedily. He’s getting used to it, I’m sure. 

He doesn’t resist when I open his mouth and give him a good tonguing. He probably sees it as quid pro quo. Indulging my idiosyncrasies. He did make me choke on his cock, after all.

His hands are heavy and sure on my shoulders, fingertips raking back and forth through the short hair at the nape of my neck. When he tires of the kiss, I launch a raid on the sweet skin of his throat and I’m rewarded with a little gasp of pleasure – which goes to my head unfortunately. I get a little carried away and tighten my hold on him, leaning into him and pushing him slightly off balance. 

He freezes: his left hand grips my upper arm in a vice while the other curls punishingly over my neck, fingernails digging into my skin. Right, so no bending him over my arm to play Rhett Butler, then.

I apologize for my faux pas, whispering a “sorry” into his ear as I restore the balance between us.

I see him blink. Then the inscrutable mask slides back into place.

“From behind. I don’t want to see you naked,” he orders with his usual precision. “And you can’t come,” he adds in a mean afterthought.

“Okay,” I reply easily. Damn. 

“Do you want a cock ring?” There’s challenge again in his arctic gaze and a hint of perverse amusement in the uplifting corner of his mouth. The arrogant little shit.

“I won’t need it.” 

Without finesse and with a view to illustrating my point, I pop the button of my jeans and roughly spin him around to face the bed. Wrench the towel off his ass. 

He takes it quietly, secure in the knowledge that he’s the one in charge.

“Prepared?” I ask gruffly, already knowing the answer. 

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re going to need it.” 

I push him none-too-gently on the bed; he lands with a modicum of grace and crawls into position. 

Jeans, condom, lube. I get behind him before he can think up any new fucking command.

If he thinks putting a ban on my orgasm is going to make me go slow and easy on him, he’s sorely mistaken.

I wedge my knees between his and force him to open a little wider. His opening is rosy and wet – drops of lube trailing down his crack. It’s all I need to know. I rub my slippery, latex-covered cock against his hole and then slap it lazily on each ass cheek – the sound thick and heavy in the silence of the room. I’m letting him know I’m not going to play around here. 

I grab an ass cheek in one hand, guide myself with the other – and enter him. Slow and steady, without pause. And when I’m certain his breathy gasps are in fact encouragement, I proceed to fuck the living daylights out of him.

Oh I’ve got news for you, your highness: I can go for hours and I have terrific aim. Especially when someone throws the gauntlet at me.

He’s soon mewling his appreciation and getting a kick out of his own vocalness as much as from my expert drilling. I can hear it in his voice: he’s listening to himself. He’s found a new means of expression, probably a new smokescreen too. I’m not saying he’s faking it: just that he’s playing it up – for his own enjoyment. There is a hypnotic quality to his gasps and moans: it would be easy to lose myself in the maze of his soft, sensual voice.

I slow down after a while, not because I’m close, but because I want to get back at him a little. I switch to short jabs, applying pulsing pressure to his sweet spot, building a steady beat. He loves it. Falls into pace, giving me his ass like his life depends on it. He thinks the finish line is in sight, but I know better. It’s going to take a while for him to come that way – especially if I mess with the rhythm.

It’s incredibly naïve of him to think I’d be desperate to come. They always think I fuck them to get my rocks off. I don’t. I fuck them so that _they_ can get their rocks off. 

I fuck for money, I fuck for glory, but I hardly ever fuck a client for my own selfish pleasure. I do enjoy it, obviously, and I do get my rocks off – spectacularly, as a matter of fact. But I have my priorities straight and I know who I am.

And who I am right now is the guy holding his highness’s orgasm at bay. Just out of reach. Close enough that he can taste it, but maddeningly beyond his power.

He grunts and writhes on my cock, trying to produce the steady friction that will tip him over the edge. I withhold it. He knows it. And he hates me.

The solution to his dilemma would be simple enough. All he has to do is order me to make him come. But he won’t. Much too proud for that. Much too entangled in his own arrogant, remote coolness.

“Bastard,” he grates helplessly.

That’s Mr Bastard to you.

There’s a crazy second when I consider slowing down to a stop, pulling out of him and walking out of the room. Leaving him high and dry to finish himself off if he can.

The thought is so outrageous that it gives me pause. 

What is wrong with me? Why would I do this to a client? He _hires_ me. Rents me to do as he wishes. He is entitled to play whatever power game he wants on me, because I’ve allowed him to do so – by _contract_.

The realisation brings me to my senses as efficiently as a bucket of cold water.

I fall into synch with him. Re-establish the resonance that will give him what he craves. Thrust into him generously to atone for my lack of professionalism. It’s the second time this sort of lapse has happened with him – and I don’t like it.

With the right rhythm and the sweet pounding, he’s soon coming, long and hard. Shudders wrenching strained moans out of him. 

I keep my hands anchored on his hips, my thumbs tracing absent circles over his skin. The sharp tightening of his muscles hasn’t tested my resistance: my cock is hard but not desperate. My sobering reality check has served better than any cock ring could have.

I pull out very slowly so as not to hurt him. He slumps forward, ending up lying prone on the bed, his left knee hitched up somewhat. Giving me a lovely view of his ass and legs – so artfully arranged.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and peel off the useless condom with a wince. I envision a swift retreat to the bathroom to handle my uncomfortable condition. In any case I need to fetch supplies to clean him up. 

“Stay here,” he orders quietly, his voice less drowsy than I would have expected.

I guess I deserved that. I stay put, resisting the urge to use the towel to mop up the evidence of his copious release congealing on the fitted sheet.

“Come on my ass,” he instructs.

It’s undeniable: he’s got a knack for blindsiding me with stuff like that. I sit poleaxed for a second – my cock finding religion again and snapping back to attention.

This is not an order he’ll need to repeat. I kneel on the bed behind him, towering over his sprawled figure. I can only see the side of his face: his eyes are closed – his expression faultlessly neutral, but his brow is slightly tightened in concentration. He’s going to listen to every sound I make.

The idea doesn’t bother me per se, but he’s in for a disappointment. I’m not really a noisy kind of guy, and I certainly never ham it up for the audience. 

Anyway. I fist myself and go to town.

It doesn’t take very long. My well-fucked client is inspiration enough – the memory of his voice uttering his filthy commands pushes me over the edge. I come with a self-satisfied grunt, splattering my load over his shapely ass – pearly ribbons of semen clinging amorously to his skin. The sight is quite something. 

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything – if it wasn’t for the too-intense set of his features, he’d appear to be fast asleep. One part of him is not pretending, though. His cock is twitching lazily. 

I spare a second to be impressed by his recovery period, then I head to the bathroom and quickly wash myself at the sink. When I join him again, he has changed position slightly, his head now buried in the pillows. His ass still bearing my personal attempt at emulating Pollock. He is properly asleep now. Jaw a little slack and any trace of control smoothed out of his face. He looks much younger.

I clean him up as gently as I can; he doesn’t wake. 

I dutifully put my jeans back on and lie down behind him. Place my hand on his hip. 

He smells good – that’s my last thought before I nod off.

I snap awake as he braces himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. We were out for only a quarter of an hour.

“Thank you for the clean up,” he says simply when he realizes I’m conscious.

“Welcome.” Prostitute and gentleman, here. 

“That’ll be all for tonight,” he tells me with unnecessary finality. He gets up and disappears.

Responding to probably the same strange urge to leave, I finish getting dressed, put my socks and boots back on, grab my cash (plus tip) in record time and make it to the door where he joins me in his bathrobe. 

He looks kind of… well, if I didn’t know better I’d say grumpy.

I can’t resist one last indulgence. I lean into his space with my most charming half-smile, softly kiss his mouth.

“Satisfied?” I’m not goading him, just asking if he enjoyed himself. After-sales and all that. 

He catches on it. 

“That’s what the tip was supposed to convey,” he says politely.

“Sometimes, nice people tip out of habit, or simply because they have unwittingly set a precedent,” I point out knowingly.

“I’m not one of those people,” he informs me, daring me to find anything nice about him.

“I see.” I open the door and turn to him one last time. “You sure you don’t want me to take care of that?” I tilt my head at the erection he’s been trying to hide within the soft confines of his immaculate bathrobe.

A slight blush creeps up his cheeks. My half-smile becomes a full smirk.

“Thanks for the offer, but I can manage on my own,” he says with a bite of defiance. His highness got busted – and he’s still giving me attitude. The competitive streak in this guy.

“Can I watch?” I ask.

He neatly closes the door in my face, but not before I see a genuine smile quirk a corner of his pretty lips.

I think it’s clear I won this round.

 

***End of Chapter 2***


End file.
